


sketches

by gingergenower



Series: the garrison [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Spoilers Up to 3x06, This was gonna be a different story... guess I've gotta write that other story now, oh god so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3x06, Constance simply needs some quiet time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sketches

**Author's Note:**

> post 3x06 cutesies

September saw crisp air and colder nights. Invigorated, the cadets fought with new life, the heavy weight of summer lifted to breathe freer. Athos chose to capitalise on their enthusiasm, and had them spend an entire day practising the dual wield in an attempt to strengthen their weaker arm.

Constance sat aside, watching. She’d never learnt the dual wield and didn’t plan to. Smaller than most opponents, her best chance in a fight was to be faster and more intelligent, not to complicate matters with more weapons. D’Artagnan tried to convince her to join them over breakfast, so she pointedly changed her clothes. Lilac skirts, off the shoulder blouse under a purple and silver embroidered corset and a necklace gifted to her by the queen made her point quite nicely. She even tied matching ribbons in her hair.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at her defiance, and tried to offer her a sword anyway. She passed it off to one of the cadets, sitting at the bench with parchment and chalk in hand.

Athos, as a captain, wasn’t overly fond of talking. He preferred to demonstrate, usually on Aramis, who was comfortable in being hurt in various violent ways. Constance wasn’t sure Athos knew he was so predictable, but he began this way again, Porthos watching with a laugh on his bottom lip every time Aramis grunted with some new pain.

Her husband was predictable too. She was sure d’Artagnan didn’t know it, but whenever she was out in the garrison and he wasn’t fighting, he was near her. He often touched her- a hand on her waist, holding her hand, kissing her hair- and if he didn’t touch her, he looked. This time, he looked to laugh with her at Aramis, and sat on the table next to her parchment, not blocking her view.

Reaching for her charcoal, she mapped the outline of his face, his torso, leaning back with a hand propping him up, sword at his waist. She could only see one side of his face, but she captured his crinkled eyes and mouth, open mid-laugh. As the wife of a tailor, she’d had very little time to do anything of her own interest. The garrison, ran by the men and kept in order by them too, gave her time for leisure. Fighting, of course, but as a young girl she’d been fond of art, and her marriage to d’Artagnan, the time she found on her hands and the walls adorned by the most exquisite of paintings in the Louvre inspired her to again.

“Your choice of muse is strange. He’s not the most handsome fellow, even in the garrison.”

Porthos and d’Artaganan’s swords clashed together, Athos watching carefully. Aramis stood over her, looking at her drawing.

The best way to defeat Aramis is never to accept embarrassment. “If I draw you, I’m sure he’d get suspicious.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Aramis said, d’Artagnan’s sword flying out of his hand at that moment. “There’s nothing like a little rivalry between friends.”

“One day, Aramis,” Constance said, shading where the half-healed gash up his neck met his hairline, the injuries from the building collapse not quite faded. “You will start a fight you cannot win.”

“D’Artagnan couldn’t-”

“I never said I was talking about d’Artagnan.”

Aramis laughed, his eyes always wide when she caught him off guard, strolling back to the fight as though they hadn’t said anything. Eyes on the parchment, Constance smiled, and didn’t notice the next approaching musketeer.

He said nothing, sheathing his sword and pressing a kiss to her temple.

“It’s not finished,” she said, and d’Artagnan nudged himself in next to her, arm around her waist.

“You’re never satisfied,” he said, not looking at it. She so very rarely showed him what she’d drawn, but when she did it was a privilege. She cared what he thought.

Her free hand dropped to his thigh, squeezing it, but she paused in her sketching. “I’m not satisfied the page sees what I do.”

“I don’t care that the page doesn’t see it. Only you.” Hand resting on her waist, he pulled her closer. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“When will this all be over?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. Porthos still had a slight limb, his leg not quite healed from the near death experience. Aramis was the only one without bruises or blood from that day.

“Your tales of escaping death so closely are wearing.”

D’Artagnan rested his head on hers. “Porthos and I agreed on something, when we were waiting. We agreed that dying was not something we would accept. I will always come home.”

She touched her fingers to the drawing, and hoped she would never need it to remember him, but he leaned across and caught them. He pulled away when Athos called for him, but she knew he would return.


End file.
